


Sing to Me

by allowaykirk



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, It's not a songfic don't worry, M/M, Music, Mutual Pining, Singing, Smut, it's just that tweet still haunts my dreams and i needed to write this, the holy trinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-27 05:28:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7605346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allowaykirk/pseuds/allowaykirk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Would you ever sing to me?"<br/>"No."<br/>"You’d totally sing to me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raglan Road

“Dex, I’m begging you.”

 

“Bitty—“

 

Bitty’s voice cuts through the phone before Dex can get another word in. “He’s _sick_ , Dex, he’s your fellow D-man and he’s _sick_ —“

 

“He’s not five, he’s nineteen—“

 

“He’s running a fever! I checked up with him before class this morning and gave him meds and soup, but God, Dex, do me a favor and check on him!”

 

Dex puffs out a sigh—he was going to study over lunch break, or maybe take a nap—anything other than take over Bitty’s mother-hen shift. “Why me?!”

 

“Because I have class and Shitty’s working on LSATs and Jack has a meeting over lunch! And because he’s your D-MAN, Dex.”

 

Dex shifts his phone so he can pin it with his shoulder and pulls on his gloves. He sighs, already regretting. “Okay, fine.”

 

Bitty gasps over the phone. “Oh, thank you, Dex, thank you thank you thank you—“

 

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.”

 

 _Anything to stop Bitty’s whining_ , he thinks, because it’s a lot easier to go with that than try to explain the strange ache in his chest.

 

So he ends the call and tugs on his beanie and heads out the door. The wind’s bitter as it whips over the Samwell River, but even the worst of Massachusetts’s winter doesn’t compare to Maine. It takes Dex only five minutes to walk from his dorm to Nursey’s, and another three to swipe his ID and climb the stairs to Nursey’s room.

 

When he gets to Nursey’s door, he sighs again, for good measure, and knocks. There’s no response, so after a few seconds he raps against the wood again, a little impatient.

 

Then he hears a sound—a wordless vocalization, either of distress or annoyance. A beat later, something slides under the door and ricochets off the opposite wall. Dex squats down and looks—it’s a key.

 

Rolling his eyes, he goes back to the door and unlocks it. “I’m coming in, Nursey,” he warns as he opens the door.

 

Nursey’s tucked into his bed under God only knows how many blankets. He has a damp towel on his head, his eyes are glassy, and he looks absolutely miserable.

 

That is, until Dex walks in. Nursey throws his head back, wails, “DEXY,” and stretches his arms out towards him, fingers pulsing as if to pull Dex closer through sheer force of will.

 

“Nursey,” Dex responds. There’s a pulse building in his forehead, he can feel it.

 

“I missed you,” Nursey wails. “Bitty came in this morning but that was ages ago.” Nursey drapes himself dramatically over his bedframe. “It’s so _lonely_ in here, Dexy.”

 

“I can’t stay for long,” Dex tells him as he walks over and dumps his backpack on the end of the bed. “But I’ll heat up some of the soup Bitty left you, and we’ll take your temperature and see if you need more medicine, okay?”

 

 _He is not going to need more medicine_ , Dex thinks to himself. _Please, God, I don’t need to see what he’s like with more._

 

Nursey nods, the movement big and out of control, then holds his head and moans. “Ahhhhh. Dexy, my head. It’s trying to kill me.”

 

“Calm down,” Dex sighs and steps over. This is like Nursey Patrol, only a thousand times worse, because Nursey won’t wake up sober. His brain will still be fever-addled tomorrow, and maybe even the day after, and Dex can only take so much mindless babbling before his own head explodes.

 

“I could hear my pulse in my ears this morning,” Nursey jabbers as Dex rubs the thermometer’s tip on the end of his sweater. “It was like thunder, Dex. It was _so_ _loud_.”

 

“That’s nice,” Dex says, then puts one hand on the back of Nursey’s head and uses the other to stick the thermometer into Nursey’s mouth. He waits for the beep, then reads it. “103 degrees. Do you remember what it was this morning?”

 

“101,” Nursey recites.

 

“Oh, great.” Dex pours out some soup into a bowl and goes to stick it in the microwave.

 

“That bowl’s dirty,” Nursey whines.

 

Dex looks over at him, disgusted. “Who keeps dirty bowls in their room? And hell, how do you _know_?”

 

“I keep track,” Nursey says rather proudly, and crosses his arms.

 

At this, Dex raises an eyebrow. “On Excel, like Ransom?”

 

“No, in my head!” He gives a loopy shrug. “I’m an _artist_ , you can’t expect me to be organized.”

 

Dex sighs—he is going to demand so many pies from Bitty. “I can expect you to not live in squalor, but whatever. What’s a clean bowl?”

 

Nursey points to a Tupperware container.

 

“You can’t microwave plastic, Nursey!”

 

“Whoops,” Nursey shrugs again, entirely too calm. “Good thing you’re here.”

 

“I cannot believe this,” Dex groans, but he has no other choice. So he marches over to the bathroom, dumps the now-disgusting soup, and washes the now-formerly-disgusting bowl.

 

When he walks back in, Nursey is slumped over in bed, sulking. But he shoots up when he sees him in the doorway. “You’re back! And you cleaned my bowl!”

 

“Yes,” Dex says.

 

“Awww,” Nursey says. Dex elects to ignore it.

 

“Here we go,” he tells Nursey as he pours out another ration of soup. “The bowl is now clean, and it’s microwave safe, so we’re going to microwave it. Okay?”

 

He receives two thumbs-up, so he continues—places the bowl in the microwave and hits reheat. The machine hums to life, but it’s far quieter than the clunky old thing back in Dex’s room. But weirdly, Dex doesn’t really feel jealousy—he searches for it, crawling beneath his skin the way it usually does, but it’s not there.

 

Dex is glad that Nursey has a functioning microwave when he’s sick.

 

God, he actually feels bad for Nursey. He actually feels for Nursey. Oh, God—he actually has _feelings_ for—

 

 _Breathe, Dex._ So he grips the top of Nursey’s chair nearby and _breathes_ , and within five seconds he is cool and calm and in control of his emotions, false alarm.

 

“You’re so nice,” Nursey trills.

 

Dex freezes.

 

“You’re so nice to me, Dexy, even when you’re trying not to.”

 

“Trying…not to?”

 

“Trying to be mean.” Dex still doesn’t turn, but he can hear the pout in Nursey’s voice, can picture him in the bed with his arms crossed, bottom lip puffed out in a silly little pantomime—

 

But Dex has to stop, has to squeeze his eyelids shut and _breathe_ because his heart’s going wild in his chest.

 

Finally, after a long “I’m not trying to be mean,” Dex says slowly. _I’m just afraid I’ll end up hurting myself_. “But I’m sorry if I come across that way.” _But God, I’d never want to hurt you._

 

“Thank you,” Nursey says with a little nod, then smiles softly. He’s loopy on meds and feverish and ridiculous, but _God_ , Dex is in pain.

 

"Dex?" Nursey's voice cuts through his thoughts. "Dex, you good? Everything a-okay, coolio-beans?"

 

Dex shouldn't be so nervous after someone just sais coolio-beans, but he is. He licks his lips, he wrings his hands, he glances at the floor. "Yeah, Nursey, I just..." He hazards a look up, and oh God, is that a mistake. Nursey’s head is cocked, waiting, still and perfect. Dear God he’s so beautiful—

 

“Nursey, I…I…” But then there’s a sound behind him, a loud one, and Dex nearly jumps into the air. It’s the microwave timer. So he turns, to get the soup and to hide the flush of his face.

 

And then maybe the pain gets to him a little bit. Maybe it’s just a bit too much, and he has to do _something_ , before he explodes.

 

“How about I make it up to you?” He says as he passes over the bowl. “Do you want me to stay while you eat your soup? I could put a video up on your laptop, or—“

 

“You could sing to me,” Nursey says coyly.

 

Dex blinks. “What.”

 

“You could sing to me! C’mon, Dexy, my moms would always sing to me when I was little.”

 

“I—I’m aware of the _concept_ ,” Dex stammers, his brain skittering to try and make sense of everything. “But—Nursey, I don’t—“

 

“What’s the song that Mary Poppins sings?” Nursey thinks, then tips his head back and wails, “ _Feed the birds! Tuppence_ —“

 

Dex kind of wants to cover his ears, be he has a feeling that’d be rude. “Jesus Christ!”

 

“Oh, you’d like something a little more upbeat? _Bitches ain’t shit and they ain’t saying nothing_ —“

 

“God no!”

 

Nursey pretends to pout, but within a moment he’s bored, and snaps back to that doofy grin of his. “What would your parents sing to you?”

 

Dex runs his hand over the short hairs along the back of his neck. He can already feel his skin heating, can feel the color rising up from his chest to his neck and face. “My family’s really Irish…”

 

Nursey cocks an eyebrow and smirks. “I never would have guessed.”

 

“Har har. But my mom, her parents were from Ireland, so I grew up with all sorts of Irish folk songs.”

 

“Well, indulge me, Poindexter,” Nursey says, leaning back and raising his arms to pillow his head with his hands. He grins, and Dex’s knees go weak. “I have zero knowledge of Celtic music. I’d like to be enlightened.”

 

And God damn it, Dex is so sick of keeping everything inside him, every dopey thought and stupid wish and half-baked desire that they could ever be more, that he gives in.

 

 _To Hell with it,_ he thinks. _Maybe this will take some of the pain away._

 

“Fine. But you have to promise not to laugh.”

 

Something shifts in Nursey’s eyes—they’re not laughing, at least not the way they were before. “Of course,” he nods, strangely serious, and something hot and delicate and yearning blooms in Dex’s chest.

 

So he sits down at the end of Nursey’s bed and takes a deep breath. And then another, because his hands are still shaking, just a little bit.

 

And then he starts to sing.

 

“ _On Raglan Road on an autumn Day / I saw her first and knew / that her dark hair / would weave a snare / that I may one day rue.”_ He takes in another breath, a little more desperate than he’d like, and continues _. “I saw the danger, yet I walked / along the enchanted way / and I said let grief be a falling leaf / at the dawning of the day.”_

 

He doesn’t dare snatch a look at Nursey. He can’t, not with the heat in his cheeks and the ache in his chest. To sing into those eyes would be another thing entirely; at least when he’s staring at Nursey’s door, he can pretend that he’s just doing this as a favor to a friend.

 

So he steels his heart and continues with the song, praying Nursey won’t hear the pain in his voice. Or maybe he wishes he would hear it. Dex doesn’t really know what his heart wants anymore.

 

But he does know that every nerve trembles within him when he sees Nursey shiver at his singing. It’s a small movement, and caught out of the corner of his eye—it could have just his imagine. But in that moment Dex swears he sees Nursey take in a deep, rattling breath as he sings, “ _I gave her poems to say / with her own name there / and her own dark hair / like clouds over fields of May_.”

 

And then before he even knows it, he’s at the last verse. His voice has softened in the short time—that happens sometimes when he loses himself in music. Dimly, he can hear himself as he sings the words into the quiet air. They sound almost like a whispered prayer.  
_“A creature made of clay / when the angel woos the clay / he'll lose his wings at the dawn of day.”_ And he swallows, because now is not the time to remember what Nursey looks like in the sunlight, with his hair and face and eyes lit up by the golden light, like an ethereal creature of the goddamn sky—

 

 _I’d lose my wings for you,_ Dex finds himself thinking. _I just wish I knew if you’d lose yours for me._

 

But he’s pausing a tad too long and Nursey’s cocking his head, so he finishes, a little shakily. “When the angel woos the clay / he'll lose his wings at the dawn of day.”

 

And then the dorm room is eerily quiet, save for the mad pulsing in Dex’s ears.

 

They sit like that for a long time, drinking in the silence and the last echoes of the lyrics in their minds.

 

Finally, Nursey clears his throat. “That, uh…”

 

Dex turns to look at him, for the first time since he started singing. Nursey’s hands are splayed out on the blanket, stretched out and paling at the tips and knuckles. Nursey’s staring down at them, and he has a strange, almost focused, look on his face.

 

Something stirs inside Dex, but he’s not sure what.

 

“That, um, wasn’t as bad as I was expecting.”

 

It takes a moment for Dex to find his words, and he's annoyed when they come out a little squeaky. “You expected me to be bad?”

 

Nursey holds up his hands, and his forehead creases. “No, I—I expected you to be passable. I was…pleasantly surprised.”

 

A pause. “Oh.”

 

Nursey had called him a good singer. Nursey, the poet, the scholar, the connoisseur of taste with impossible standards, had complimented his singing.

 

But Dex barely even has the time to process this before Nursey clears his throat and says, “I’m still awake, though.”

 

Dex blinks once, then twice. “You…want me to sing you to sleep?”

 

Nursey manages a smirk, but it’s different, a little softer than before. “That’s the whole point of a lullaby, dumbass.”

 

And then Nursey does the unthinkable. He lifts his head and pats at the space beside his shoulder expectantly. “C’mere, I’m cold.”

 

“You’re—“

 

“I am an _invalid_ , William Poindexter,” Nursey whines. “I have a _fever_ , I need to be _warm_.”

 

And so Dex stands up as if in a trance, and sits down beside Nursey’s pillow. Nursey lays his head in Dex’s lap, very gently, and even curls his fingers against the material of Dex’s jeans.

 

And so Dex sings Raglan Road again, even softer this time, and watches the soft rise and fall of Nursey’s chest, and feels the heat of Nursey’s face through his jeans. He waits for the sound of Nursey’s gentle snoring before he lifts Nursey’s head and, carefully, reverently, eases it back onto the pillow.

 

He allows himself one glance at Nursey before he leaves the room.

 

But as he presses his back to the door, his heart hammers in his chest and blood rushes through his ears and he wonders, oh, does he wonder.

 

“ _A chuisle_ ,” he breathes, then steels himself with a steady breath and walks down the hall.


	2. Like Real People Do

Nursey has plans. Good ones, in fact.

 

After class, he is going to head straight to the Haus. He is going to borrow a pair of pajamas and make himself cocoa. He is going to stretch out on the couch and put his feet up and read for as long as he pleases, happy and warm as the cold January winds whine and moan against the windows.

 

But just after he gets out of lecture, his phone buzzes in his pocket—it’s a call.

 

“Sup,” he says once he brings the phone to his ear. He doesn’t even bother to question who’s calling, or why—his mind is set on hot chocolate and _Northanger Abbey._

 

“Hey Nursey, it’s Bitty.” There’s a little pause. “I, ah—I need a favor.”

 

“Uh, sure thing, what?” The last time Bitty needed help, it was with baking, and Nursey had gotten to lick the remnants off the bowl. He prays

fervently—pie would make his afternoon plans even better.

 

But then Bitty says, “It’s about Dex,” and all images of pie and warm fuzzy socks and hot cocoa fall right out of Nursey’s head.

 

“Bitty—“

 

“I need you to—“

 

“Bitty, it’s Friday—“

 

“He’s sick, Nursey!”

 

Nursey blinks. Dex had been coughing during practice yesterday, sure, but—

 

“He’s sick, he’s got a bad cold and I need you to drop some stuff off in his room. I’d do it myself, but I need to get to the train station—“

 

“The train station?”

 

“I’m, uh, visiting family this weekend. But Nursey—the bag’s on the banister in the Haus, soon as you walk in, you can’t miss it. Nursey, I’m begging you.”

 

“Is he still contagious?”

 

“Nursey! He checked up on you when you were sick!”

 

“Okay, okay, fine, jeez!” He hangs up and sticks his phone, now cold, deep into his pockets. It’s a long, freezing walk to the Haus, and the walk to Dex’s dorm is only made slightly better by the thermos of soup that heats him through the bag.

 

Dex never locks his door, so he just kicks the door with the toe of his boot—his hands are full—and says, “Don’t be naked,” and opens the door.

 

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Dex moans as Nursey steps through the doorway. He does look pretty bad—face all flushed with fever, dark shadows beneath his eyes, and—

 

“Dude, is that a tampon up your nose?”

 

Dex just cocks his chin, unabashed. “Admit it, you’d do the same if you were in my shoes.”

 

Dex has a point, so Nursey just shrugs, digs through Bitty’s bag of supplies, and tosses him a packet of tissues. Dex tries to catch them, but his reflexes are sluggish with sickness and the package slips off the bed. He groans loudly.

 

“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” Nursey huffs and comes over. He kneels, picks up the tissues, and presents them to Dex with a showy bow, as if they were in some sort of ridiculous medieval fantasy, or a regency ball.

 

“Why thank you, kind sir,” Dex slurs with a coy grin, and that’s when Nursey realizes just how much Dex may be affected by his cold meds.

 

Because Dex doesn’t just take the packet of tissues. He takes Nursey’s hand as well.

 

Sweat begins to form along the nape of Nursey’s neck. “Um…Dex…”

 

Dex’s fingers are warm from his fever, and rough from hockey and work and a thousand other things that Dex does to keep himself busy. But as Nursey stares at those pale fingers, dusted with freckles and sitting so warm against his skin, he realizes it’s definitely not an unpleasant sensation.

 

And then Dex arches an eyebrow and _strokes_ at Nursey’s hand, and Nursey actually has to bite down on his lip to keep quiet.

 

“God damn, Nurse, how do you keep your hands that soft?”

 

“Moisturizing, Poindexter. It’s important.” Nursey clears his throat and takes the packet himself, then opens it and pulls out a tissue. “Here—I can’t take you seriously with that thing up your nose.”

 

And maybe that’s part of the truth, but there’s also something else, something he doesn’t really want to dig at right now. Something about Dex when his face is all flushed and his eyes are glazed and his smile is easy.

 

Dex takes out the tampon and blows his nose, then drops the mess in the wastebasket beside the bed. “Did Bitty pack anything else? I can’t survive off of just tissues.”

 

“There’s soup here, I think,” Nursey says, and pulls out the thermos. Dex’s spoons are in his drawer, clean and immaculate as usual, but even before he passes one over, Dex is chugging the soup, broth running down his chin.

 

Nursey tips the bottom of the thermos. “Whoa, not so fast, you’ll get sick.”

 

“I’m already sick, Nursey,” Dex says, his lips still close enough to the thermos to bridge the edge as he speaks. Nursey doesn’t know why he notices that. “But thanks for your concern,” Dex says with a comically big wink.

 

“Um,” Nursey says. “Anytime.”

 

Dex eats a bit slower, which is enough of a victory, and so Nursey sits in his desk chair and leans back. They sit in companionable silence as Dex finishes off the soup, until Dex begins to pull at the blankets. “Wait—too much soup. I gotta pee.”

 

“Ah, okay.”

 

Dex finally frees himself from the sheets, but as soon as his feet hit the floor, he wobbles and clutches at the bedframe for support.

 

“Nursey,” he says woozily. “My knees are jelly.”

 

“Whoa there,” Nursey laughs, and steadies Dex. “Here, come on, I’ll help you.”

 

It’s a long, disastrous walk to the hall bathroom. Dex keeps veering into the walls, and by the time they reach the bathroom, Nursey’s practically dragging him.

 

He’s then treated to a play-by-play of Dex’s pissing experience (“Too much soup, Nursey!”) before he has Dex wash his hands for an extra twenty seconds, and then he half-carries him back to the dorm room. And all the while he knows he should be annoyed. It’s Friday, it’s a day for peace and quiet, and he’s dragging a half-limp, snot-slobbering mess of a friend down the hall.

 

But Nursey can feel the heat of Dex’s arm around his shoulders, and can hear his laughter, and he just can’t find it in himself to be annoyed.

 

They make it back to Dex’s room, and Dex staggers towards the bed. He flings himself onto the mattress and wriggles under the blankets. Nursey laughs at the ridiculousness of it—logically he knows that Dex is loopy off of cold meds and looks absolutely stupid, diving into his blankets like a goddamn mole burrowing into the earth.

 

But he can hear Dex’s laugh and can see his flushed face and sleep-tousled hair, and Nursey finds himself wondering why he was so annoyed about visiting Dex in the first place. So it’s easy to pull out his book and curl up, just as he would if he were in the Haus. The dorm is plenty quiet, and the window has a bit of a draft, so it’s a good excuse to grab a spare blanket and nestle into the desk chair.

 

“You getting cozy, Nurse?”

 

“You can’t hog all the blankets for yourself, Poindexter.”

 

Dex sniffs, but he’s fighting back a smile. “I am sick, Derek Nurse. I can be as cozy as I please.”

 

Nursey laughs, and Dex joins in, the sound deep and sincere.

 

He’s being so much more open than usual, Nursey notices. Not that Dex shuts him out—they’ve gotten so much better since freshman year, and Nursey thinks of him as one of his best friends. But the Dex he’s familiar with would never stick a tampon up his nose, or hold his hand, or laugh his way through a fever.

 

“God, Dex, you’re a riot when you’re sick.”

 

“Why thank you,” Dex says, and does a mock little bow.

 

“Not that you’re not when you’re healthy, it’s just…”

 

“It’s okay, I get it.” Dex gives a little half-smile, then chuckles softly into his own shoulder. “It’s kind of funny, actually.”

 

“It’s funny?”

 

But Dex doesn’t elaborate. He just picks at the blanket, as if it’s the most interesting thing in the universe, and hums softly.

 

Nursey drags the desk chair over to the bed. He’s so close to Dex, he can count every freckle, every eyelash.

 

“Dex?” Does he need something? Is there something wrong?

 

Dex looks up, and studies Nursey’s face for a moment. It’s a strange feeling, to be scrutinized by William Poindexter. Nursey feels an unfamiliar flutter in the bottom of his stomach.

 

“Remember when you were sick?” Dex asks. “And I sang to you?”

 

“Yeah,” Nursey replies, and smiles at the memory. “It was Raglan Road, wasn’t it?”

 

“When are you going to sing to me?”

 

Nursey chokes out a laugh. “Oh, Dex—Dex, I would, really, but you don’t want to hear me sing.”

 

At that, Dex scrunches up his face in thought. Nursey watches his features smooth as a soft smile appears on his face.

 

“I could sing to you, then,” Dex says slyly.

 

Nursey laughs. “Dex, you’re the sick one—I mean, Jeez, if you really want music—“

 

“No, I’ve made up my mind,” Dex says, putting his hand to Nursey’s chest. Nursey can feel the heat through his shirt, and that flutter returns. _It’s just his fever_ , he insists. But his head’s still a little muzzy.

 

Dex hums a couple notes, then begins to sing. It’s just as lovely as before, even though his nose is clogged and his sleep-soft lips keep tripping over some of the words. _“I had a thought, dear / however scary / about that night / the bugs and the dirt—“_

 

“Bugs and dirt? What kind of song is this?”

 

“Shhh!” Dex puts his finger to Nursey’s lips. Nursey does not wonder what it tastes like, no he most certainly does not. “You’re ruining the mood.” He closes his eyes and continues. _“Why were you digging? What did you bury / before those hands pulled me / from the earth? / I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask you, neither should you.”_

 

Nursey finds himself lulled by the song, in spite of the rather weird lyrics and Dex’s constant sniffling as he tries to dry his running nose. So he’s a little unprepared when Dex locks eyes with him and sings in a stunningly sultry voice, _“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips / we should just kiss like real people do.”_

 

Nursey’s mouth actually falls open. A million thoughts are screaming in his mind, and a thousand more sensations were rushing through his blood. Why did Dex choose that song? And that particular line? Did he really—

 

And Hell, when did William Poindexter get that smooth?

 

“I think that’s enough,” Nursey says, and his voice is shaky even in his own ears. He wipes his hands on his pants, because sweat has already coated his palms.

 

Dex pouts, and Nursey can’t think about how pink and soft his lips look right now, he just can’t, because if he starts, he won’t stop.

 

 _He’s loopy on meds,_ Nursey tells himself. _He would never do this otherwise._

 

But Dex sang Raglan Road to him before, didn’t he? And cold medicine doesn’t change people that much, surely.

 

“How about this,” Nursey says, forcing his voice to be steady. “I’ll put on some Enya, or whatever Irish stuff you want, to help you go to sleep. And then when you’re better, and no longer all loopy, we’ll talk about this.”

 

Dex nods at that, and so Nursey brings over the laptop and has Dex unlock it and chooses the more relaxing Celtic music playlist he can find.

 

Dex nestles further into the pillow and mumbles, “I listen to other stuff too, you know.”

 

“I know. But it’s so fun to chirp you.”

 

“Well, I’m glad,” Dex murmurs, already half-asleep. “If it makes you laugh.”

 

And Nursey pauses, because what does Dex mean by that?

 

Does he like the sound of Nursey’s laugh?

 

But then Nursey reminds himself that he shouldn’t be hearing this. Dex would never act like this if he weren’t hiked up on cold meds, and Nursey can’t take anything he says seriously.

 

But as he watches Dex’s chest expand as he breathes, watches his eyelids flutter and his lips move ever so slightly, he can’t help but wish that Dex would bring this up again.

 

 _“Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips,”_ he had sang. “ _We should just kiss like real people do.”_

 


	3. Falling for You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that earned this fic the graphic violence warning, so tread carefully. Nothing too bad, just wanted to be safe.

It’s a known fact that Dex doesn’t shy away from violence on the ice.

 

They’re not allowed to fight in college hockey, but it doesn’t stop rougher players from checking extra hard. It’s what terrifies Bitty, of course, but Dex has never been scared of it. Nursey always tells him that he must have been born with his hands clenched into fists, ready to take on the world.

 

So it’s no surprise to him that Dex has been keeping his eye on a particular forward on the BC team. He doesn’t seem too afraid to throw a few fists around, either, and so it makes sense for Dex and Nursey to team up and keep him out of the goal.

 

It’s just before the end of second quarter, and the puck’s far down the ice, but Nursey’s keeping his cool and trying to use his head. If he can just keep the puck out for just a couple more seconds, they can go into the next quarter—

 

But he’s so fixated on the puck he doesn’t notice the pest from BC barreling forward. Too late, he sees the forward coming towards him, and panics. His back is to the boards, the check is going to hurt—

 

There’s a spray of ice as Dex snows the guy, hard, and the forward stops in his tracks.

 

“Got something on your face,” Dex taunts. “Want your mom to wipe it off for you?”

 

The forward turns and sneers. “You want a piece of me, fuckface?”

 

“Oh, real creative,” Dex laughs, skating backwards. He gestures for the forward to follow.

 

Nursey recognizes the play—he’s baiting the pest away from the goal. They’ve done this before, to keep forwards away from Chowder.

 

But Dex isn’t defending Chowder. He’s defending Nursey.

 

Nursey skates forward to help Dex pin him, but he can hear scuffling to his left—there’s the puck, and Tango’s struggling to keep it, so he dives in and tries to direct it down to Bitty. But another forward comes up and fights for it, so Nursey skates towards to get the puck back—

 

When he hears an impact and a collective ‘ooh’ from the crowd. He can already hear Lardo yelling for the ref, and sure enough, a shrill whistle pierces the air.

 

He turns to see Dex, pinned to the boards by the elbow of that asshole forward. The ref’s whistle shrieks, and the forward pulls away—

 

And Dex crashes to the ice.

 

Nursey drops his stick and _skates_ , and within two seconds he’s crossed the rink. Murray’s yelling at him and the ref is pulling Dex up, who’s crying out in spite of himself, his hands flying to his side. He doubles over and Nursey surges up to catch him before he falls.

 

“Chest—“ Dex grunts, his breathing coming out in sharp gasps. “Ribs—I think—“

 

“Get him off the ice,” Hall yells, and Nursey and the ref help Dex to the bench. Nursey swivels his head around, trying to find the forward—because if looks could kill now would be a perfect opportunity. But he sees Chowder’s already got his goalie face on and is skating forward. Dex’s skate catches on the ice, and Nursey turns back around to help him. A moment later, he hears blades clattering on the ice and the crowd yelling and whooping, and he doesn’t have to turn his head to know what Chowder’s doing.

 

They reach the bench, and Holster’s waiting with the door open. Dex crashes down on the floor, panting. Murray’s there, waiting for him with a medic. The rest of the team is huddled behind him, wide-eyed and eerily quiet.

 

“Lay down,” Murray orders, and Dex complies. Nursey kneels by his head and helps Murray unfasten Dex’s padding while the medic sits down by Dex’s side. Murray leans over the other side of the bench, his head over Dex’s.

 

“How you feeling, Poindexter?” He asks.

 

“I’ve been better,” Dex manages. He tries to grin, but his teeth are tightly clenched, and it comes off as more of a grimace.

 

The medic untucks his shirt. “Ribs, you said? Which side?”

 

“Right,” Dex gasps. “Bottom.”

 

Hall hikes up the bottom of Dex’s shirt, and Nursey winces in spite of himself. There’s already a bruise forming, a dark angry stripe across Dex’s pale skin.

 

The medic barely presses his fingers to the mark, and Dex sucks in his breath through his teeth.

 

“I’m sorry, son, but I need to know how bad it is,” the medic says.

 

Dex’s nails are digging into the rubber padding on the floor, so Nursey takes his fingers and holds them tight.

 

Hall’s fingers skirt the edges of the mark, and Dex holds his breath and squeezes Nursey’s hands right back.

 

“It feels like a clean break,” the medic says. Nursey knows that’s good—much better than messy, crunched bone—but it’s still chilling to know that Dex has a broken rib. “Do me a favor and breathe deep, son. Tell me if you feel any grinding when you do.”

 

Dex takes a big breath, then another. “Nothing.”

 

“Good.” Murray stands back up and goes to talk over the play with Hall, leaving just Nursey, Dex, and the medic. The medic’s digging around for something in his bag, so Nursey bends down so his mouth is level with Dex’s ear.

 

“You took that shithead for me,” Nursey hisses.

 

Dex is already flushed, but now his color spreads further, making him look like a complete tomato. “No, I didn’t—“

 

“Dex—“ _Please don’t lie, I saw what you did._ He’s trying to form words, but they’re getting all jumbled up in his mind, and all that comes out of his mouth is a plaintive little sound.

 

God, what kind of English major _is_ he?

 

So Nursey just takes Dex’s hand in his, trying to make him understand, and Dex is staring at their entwined fingers. After a moment, he looks back up at Nursey, lips parted, eyes wide.

 

But there’s a rattling on the boards nearby, and they both jump. Nursey cranes his neck to look, and sees that it’s Chowder, still trying to skate forward despite the two refs clinging desperately to his arms. Once they pull him farther down the rink, Chowder must realize he won’t be able to go back in for another blow, and quits struggling. He shakes off the refs and skates over to the penalty box himself, and blows a kiss to the crowd as he steps in, very à la Ryan Reaves. The crowd goes wild, but Nursey’s too busy looking for that forward. After a minute of searching he spots him on the visiting bench, a towel pressed to the side of his face and a medic at his side.

 

Cold satisfaction rips through Nursey, to see the forward hurting after hitting Dex like that. Personally, he would have been okay if Chowder had taken the ass’s head off, but he’ll take what he can get.

 

But he’s shaken out of his thoughts; Dex’s trying to take a deep breath, but it’s unsteady and his whole chest shudders. He winces, and Nursey grabs both hands now. “Breathe with me, Dex. Like this.” He takes a slow breath, and Dex tries to follow as best as he can.

 

“Keep talking,” Dex says through his teeth. After a moment, he adds a softer, “please.”

 

 _I’ll do better than that,_ Nursey realizes, because what’s a better breathing exercise than singing?

 

“Hey Dex,” he whispers.

 

Dex sniffs. “What?”

 

“I’ve got a song for you.”

 

Despite his pain, Dex manages a grin.

 

“You fucking dork.”

 

Nursey ignores the chirp and starts singing. “ _What time you coming down? / We started losing light_ —“

 

“Your hipster shit, of course.”

 

“Sh. _I'll never make it right / if you don't wonder off_ …”

 

Nursey warbles on through the song, taking a deep breath after every line. Dex follows his lead, sucking in breath through gritted teeth. His hands aren’t gripping Nursey’s as tightly anymore, at least. The medic’s gone off for help—maybe even to get a stretcher, though Nursey shudders to think of it—and the team isn’t too freaked out—they’ve seen Holster serenade Ransom every week, and they’re too busy going over plays for the second half.

 

So Nursey doesn’t really question it when he starts rubbing the top of Dex’s hands with his thumbs. _“ You said some very mind well / closer to your height and / then we'll knock around, endlessly / you're all I need…”_

 

Dex’s face flushes, and Nursey realizes what he just sang.

 

“Oh, uh—“

 

They just stare at each other for a second, shocked into silence. Nursey’s trying desperately to string words together, but all his thoughts are turning to mush.

 

Dex’s mouth is open, but it takes him a second to actually speak. “Wow, Nursey.”

 

Nursey holds his breath, waiting.

 

“I forgot what a shit singer you are.”

 

They stare at each other again.

 

And then they start laughing, big, messy laughs that catch the attention of the team, who are all shushing them worriedly. Dex’s grimacing while laughing, pinning his ribs with his hand, but they can’t stop, not until they’re out of breath and

 

And as he watches Dex’s face, the gentle curl of his bangs over his forehead, the faint dusting of freckles just along his eyelids, everything clicks into place.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Nursey wants this, and more. _So much more_ , he thinks, watching dizzily as Dex blinks, red eyelashes long and soft and catching the lighting of the rink in a way that Nursey’s never seen before.

 

And so Nursey takes a deep breath, heart beating wildly in his chest. “ _Don't you see me and—_ “

 

But he’s drowned out by the clambering of the medics as they barrel into the bench with a cloth stretcher. Dex looks away, surprised at the sound, and but Nursey can’t stop looking at him, even as they’re pulling him up and securing him in—

 

Nursey makes a wild grab for Dex’s hand, and hold on tight.

 

“Come on, kid,” the medic says, gently as he can.

 

Nursey isn’t listening. “Dex—Dex, I’m so sorry—“

 

“It’s not your fault—“

 

“Kid, I’ve got to take him—“

 

But Nursey isn’t letting go, because Dex still doesn’t understand. He’s not apologizing for the rib—he’s apologizing for being an idiot, for being oblivious, for not getting his head out of his ass until the worst possible moment.

 

But the someone puts a hand on his shoulder, firmly, and Dex’s fingers slip out of his as the medics carry him.

 

“I’ll call you,” Nursey vows, and Dex nods, jaw clenched in pain. There’s a fire in his eyes, but Nursey can’t tell if it’s from his words or the pain.

 

And then they’re gone, Nursey’s too late, they’ve taken Dex down the hall to the trainer’s room, and maybe even to the loading dock, to get him in a car—

 

And suddenly Nursey’s knees are weak and he sits down heavily on the bench.

 

“You okay there, buddy?” Holster asks him, his tone kindly.

 

“I—I’m okay,” Nursey says, because he can’t exactly say he just had an epiphany about his own feelings, and it was all thanks to his best friend’s rib getting broken.

 

But Holster just pats the top of head knowingly and leaves him be.

 

‘I’ll call you,’ he had told Dex. But he doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Dex. He still doesn’t know, even after the second half, when they manage to limp by with a tie secured in the last minute. He doesn’t know, the whole bus ride back to the hotel, or when he begs Murray and Hall to at least tell him what hospital Dex is in.

 

“It’s one in the morning, Nurse. I promise you, he’s fine, we’ve spoken with him and his doctor. But you both need to rest.”

 

So Nursey finds himself sitting in his hotel bed at half past one, turning his phone over in his hands. It takes him a full minute to scrape together enough courage to call Dex. Even as the line rings, he realizes he probably should have written out what he wanted to say.

 

The line picks up, and Nursey hears Dex’s voice. “Nursey? You—“

 

“You okay?”

 

“Yeah. I got an x-ray. A clean break, nothing else wrong. I got a rib strap to help it heal—it’s not that different from my old binder.”

 

“Thank God you got top surgery last year.”

 

“Yeah, tell me about it. Now I’m just stuck in a room, hooked up to the monitor—they just want to run tests during the night, make sure my lungs are okay.”

 

“Uh, they better be,” Nursey says, and Dex gives a breathy little laugh.

 

Nursey glances over to the empty twin bed beside his, and his heart is heavy, because Dex should be there, happy and sleepy as they talk and chirp long into the night. But now over the phone, their conversation is timid, and Nursey’s at a loss for words.

 

And then he feels his heart skitter again, and a little voice in the back of his head whispers, _it’s late, but it’s not too late._

 

“Dex?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I’m going to be there when we pick you up tomorrow morning.”

 

“Uh, yeah, because either you’re on the bus or else you’re finding your own way back to Massachusetts.”

 

“Yeah, but then, once we get to Samwell…” Nursey licks his lips and quells his nerves and dives headfirst. “We’re going to Annie’s. You are buying that horrible black coffee that you somehow love, and I’m going to buy something that doesn’t taste like boiled gasoline. We are going to talk about everything and anything, and we are going to have a wonderful time.”

 

Dex snorts. “Uh-huh.”

 

“And then I am walking you back to your dorm room. And, if you want me to—“ Nursey’s head is spinning. “I am going to kiss that horrible black coffee taste out of your mouth.”

 

He holds his breath, praying fervently.

 

Dex’s smile is audible through the phone. “Raglan Road finally got to you, huh?”

 

Nursey’s mouth opens in shock. “Wait—you— _that_ _long_ —“

 

“See you tomorrow, Derek,” Dex whispers into the phone, and promptly hangs up. And Nursey brings the phone up to his face because he is smiling so hard it hurts, but none of that matters. Because as Nursey goes to sleep, all he can hear is Dex’s laughter, all he can see is Dex’s smile, and all he can feel is the glorious, swooping sensation of falling, with no end in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait--this chapter ended up being too similar to chillwhiskey's Dex-gets-checked fic and I had to rewrite it.  
> To anyone curious, fighting is technically against the rules in college hockey. However, within 5 seconds of searching on Youtube, I was able to find plenty of college hockey fights that could possibly escalate into a broken rib. Chowder and the forward from BC would have been put in the penalty box, so don't ask me who was Samwell's goalie during the second half--I have no idea.


	4. riptide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: they did the do ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“Jesus Christ,” Dex whispers one more time, for emphasis.

 

Nursey laughs into the nape of his neck, his warmth breath ghosting down Dex’s spine and making his hair stand on end. “So you told me.”

 

“Well, here I am saying it again—Jesus Christ.” Dex draws in a breath, but his head is still spinning. “That was awesome.”

 

Nursey makes a little sound of affirmation and kisses Dex’s shoulder. “I missed you,” he whispers into his skin.

 

“I could tell,” Dex whispers back.

 

Nursey snorts. “Oh, shut up.”

 

Dex pitches his voice low, in a bad impression of Nursey’s husky whisper. “Between the ‘oh, God, Dex, just like that’ and the ‘your hands, babe, your hands’—“

 

But now Nursey’s tickling him, fingers light and playful along his stomach, and Dex is laughing.

 

Dex tickles back, and both of them dissolve into giggles. Once they’re tuckered out, they lay there together, drinking in the heat of each other’s skin and the gentle breeze wafting through the attic window.

 

They’re upperclassmen, _finally_. Classes start on Monday, but for now the weekend stretches ahead of them, endless. The whole Haus is silent except for Nursey’s gentle breathing, and the rush of the wind through the trees outside.

 

It’s the beginning of junior year. The world is at their feet—along with their clothes, that is.

 

Nursey shifts so his lips are brushing the shell of Dex’s ear. “This summer—I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know we talked and skyped and all that, but…”

 

“Yeah.” Dex knows the feeling—he carried it through the summer as well.

 

“I saw reminders of you _everywhere_. Every time I went into a coffee shop, I thought of our first date. Every time I saw a lobster at the grocery store, I thought of you.” Dex laughs at that, and so Nursey waits before he adds, “Every sappy song on the radio, even.”

 

Dex can see where this is going, but he doesn’t want to stop it. He just leans back into Nursey and listens to him sing.

 

_“Baby, running down to the riptide / taken away to the dark side / I wanna be your left hand man…”_

 

He hasn’t gotten any better at singing, but Dex appreciates the effort. He just closes his eyes and listens, basking in Nursey’s warmth.

 

“ _I love you—“_

 

Dex’s eyes snap open.

 

 _“—when you’re singing that song,”_ Nursey continues, but Dex can hear the smile in his voice _. “And / I got a lump in my throat 'cause / you're gonna sing the words wrong…”_

 

He finishes, and for a moment Dex is afraid to break the silence.

 

“You love me?”

 

Nursey tugs on his shoulders, gently, and Dex turns so he’s straddling Nursey. They’re nose to nose, and the warmth of Nursey’s breath is killing Dex, it’s just killing him—

 

“Yes,” Nursey whispers. He cradles Dex’s face, a hand on each side of his jaw, and rubs his thumbs back and forth. “I do.”

 

Dex surges forward, and their lips crash together. Nursey makes a muffled sound of surprise, but responds enthusiastically, pulling Dex closer until their bodies are pressed together without an inch of space. They kiss and they kiss and they _kiss_ , and all the while they’re making all sorts of noises; Dex is crying at this point and Nursey is giggling under Dex’s fingers as he slides down the headboard. Dex bends down and kisses across Nursey’s collarbone, whispering, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” and Nursey’s laughter is infectiously happy as he writhes beneath Dex’s lips.

 

“The boys,” Nursey finally gasps, eyes streaming, and Dex eases up on the kisses, because the attic isn’t soundproof. But it’s still a long time before they go to sleep—and when they do, their lips are puffy and warm, and they’re curled together on the mattress, fiddling with hair and whispering soft words into each other’s skin.

 

Nursey falls asleep first, and Dex is halfway there, but he’s able to string together a couple coherent thoughts as he tucks his face into Nursey’s neck.

 

_I couldn’t think of a better start to junior year._

 

The world is at his feet, and Dex has never felt happier in his life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A chuisle - an Irish term of endearment, meaning 'pulse.'


End file.
